


Some to Misery Are Born

by roane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Angst, BDSM themes, Grief/Mourning, Lies, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Post Reichenbach, Post Series 9 (Spooks), Rough Sex, suspect motivations abound, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance meeting in a graveyard seems to offer John Watson a new chance for happiness. Nick Chapin seems like the perfect man, and just what he needs after losing Sherlock. But 'Nick' is keeping a secret of his own, a past that's stripped him of everything he was and left him a nameless shell.  Worse, their meeting wasn't as coincidental as John thinks...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thanks to thisprettywren and mydwynter for betaing and handholding, especially when this stopped looking like a story to me.
> 
> Spoilers for the end of Lucas North's time on MI-5, but watching MI-5 isn't a prerequisite to understanding the story.
> 
> Thanks to [Злой Мишатка](http://ficbook.net/authors/%D0%97%D0%BB%D0%BE%D0%B9+%D0%9C%D0%B8%D1%88%D0%B0%D1%82%D0%BA%D0%B0), this is now [available in Russian](http://ficbook.net/readfic/973354).

The man who sells him coffee each morning calls him Joe. His landlady calls him David. Everyone else he’s ever known calls him ‘traitor’.

He should have left London two years ago, but he just couldn’t make himself go. He told himself then that there was too much pressure on, that too many people might be watching for him. He knew it for a lie then, but chose to believe it anyway.

He’s chosen to believe a lot of things over the years. Not all of them are real, but all of them are true. It’s a gift, to be able to pick and choose what he believes. It’s a curse, to have so many truths to pick and choose from.

The one truth that matters is that there’s a corner of Croydon, a small wooded area. He can stand there and look into Queen’s Road Cemetery without being seen. So he can’t leave London for good.

Every morning when he’s not working, he goes and gets his coffee and the newspaper. He walks. If the weather’s fine, he goes to Croydon for a visit. He gets by. He survives. He tells himself it’s better than prison.

On this particular Tuesday, as he’s leaving the stationer’s, there’s a white sheet hanging from the fourth story window of the building across the street. He knows the signal. There won’t be a trip to Croydon for him today.

He returns to the flat (he can’t call it ‘his’, not really) and unlocks the small safe that contains a mobile, a battery, and a SIM card. He plugs in the SIM and the battery, and powers up the phone.

There are always jobs for men like him, men with certain skills and a willingness to skip questions. He does well for himself. Gets a reputation as a man who will complete a job no matter what.

There’s one message waiting for him: _Doc may have saved his patient. Make an appointment. More info to come._

He snaps the phone shut and pockets it, leaving it on. This particular employer is demanding about being in touch.

Information extraction for now, then. Should be simple. He remembers ‘Doc’, and thinks he knows just where to find him. In fact, he’s seen him there before. Looks like his trip to Croydon is back on.

\---

John doesn’t go to the cemetery every single day. That would be excessive. In the months since Sherlock’s death, there has been as long as a week between visits. He goes when he feels the need, like the need to poke at sore that hasn’t quite healed.

It’s difficult to brood in a place like Queen’s Road, especially when the sun is shining through the trees. The picturesque chapel, the rolling green lawn, it’s easy to forget for a moment that the inhabitants are dead and the living just visitors.

John tries to visit quietly, but sometimes he can’t. Sometimes he talks to Sherlock. Once or twice, he’s shouted at him. It’s after one of those one-sided rows that John first sees the stranger. At first John thinks he’s seen a ghost: the man is tall and pale and a little haggard, and definitely too thin. He isn’t in the cemetery proper, but looks to be hiding himself in a clump of trees. He’s staring intently across the cemetery, but John can’t quite tell at what. 

In a way, he’s grateful for the distraction. John watches the man as unobtrusively as he can, pretending to pull weeds from Sherlock’s grave. The man looks like nothing so much as a brooding Byronic hero--because God knows John needs another one of _those_ in his life. While he watches, the man comes out into the open and walks with a sure, long-legged stride to one of the graves. 

When he kneels down and covers his face, John looks away, suddenly ashamed for spying on a stranger’s grief. He’s just about to leave, when he hears a choked cry. John turns around and sees the man now lying crumpled on his side. English reticence tells him to walk away and not intrude, but Dr. John Watson can no more walk away from a person in need than Sherlock could ever walk away from a curiosity.

When he’s about five metres away, John clears his throat. “Erm, are you all right?”

The man scrambles to a sitting position immediately, scrubbing tears away from his face with one hand and dusting off his clothes with the other. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone was here.” His voice is low and rougher-edged than Sherlock’s, and John’s reaction is visceral enough that he has to resist a guilty glance over his shoulder at Sherlock’s grave. Bloody hell. How many beautiful tall, pale, blue-eyed and dark-haired Englishmen _are_ there in London, and why is John finding them all?

“No, don’t apologise,” John said. “I’m sorry, I just thought--sorry.” He lowers his gaze and steals a chance to look at the tombstone: _Maya Lahan, 1975-2010_. That’s all. Nothing flowery, no ‘beloved wife and mother’, just the name and the years. Simple, unrevealing. Like Sherlock’s.

The man clears his throat. “I’m okay,” he says, looking anywhere but at John. The tips of his ears are pink. John finds his embarrassment almost painful to watch. 

“I understand,” John says. “Believe me.” A gust of wind cuts across the cemetery, and John zips his jacket higher. The weather’s turning and clouds are thickening across the sky. If he doesn’t go soon, he’ll be caught out in it for sure. “I’ll let you be. Sorry again.” He turns to go.

He’s about twenty steps away when he hears footsteps behind him. John turns to see the man following him at a jog. “I suspect neither one of us should be drinking alone right now,” the man says, “but I bet we both could use one.”

“You really don’t have to--”

“Yes, I do,” the man says. “Besides, I don’t fancy getting caught in a downpour any more than you do.” He smiles thinly and sticks out his hand. “Thank you. For stopping to check on me. Nick Chapin.”

“John Watson.” John shakes his hand and tries not to notice just how attractive Nick Chapin is, because it feels stunningly inappropriate. 

They end up spending two hours in the pub, drinking and talking about everything except why they were both in a cemetery. John goes home alone but pleasantly pissed. Nick’s phone number is in his pocket, but he’ll probably never call it.

Still, it’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to John since Sherlock died.

\---

Nick Chapin is one of his better-developed aliases. If (when) John Watson decides to do a little bit of internet research, he’ll find plenty of innocuous information: a Facebook profile, a barely-used Twitter account, a couple of planted academic articles on Russian linguistics--something he thinks he can fake with some proficiency.

He hasn’t formulated a plan yet. For now his only job is to find out whether the original target is still alive after all. He suspects not--or if he is, then Watson doesn’t know. Either way, worrying about it isn’t in his job description. If it turns out that Sherlock Holmes is still alive somewhere, whether Watson knew or not will be irrelevant. The kill order on Watson will be reinstated, and he’ll finish the job he was contracted for six months earlier.

He just needs a plan to get the information. He scrubs his face and closes his laptop. He’s sure Watson will call; he’s lonely, and it’s obvious he found ‘Nick Chapin’ attractive. He’ll use that to his advantage. He wonders if Watson is prone to pillow talk. He wonders if it will have to go that far.

\---

John manages to wait until the next day to Google Nick Chapin. He sees the man’s face smiling out at him from his Facebook page and his stomach drops and goes wibbly. This is a terrible idea, and he should just close his laptop and lose the card Nick gave him. It’s too soon for him, and clearly Nick still has his own grief to deal with. Not to mention, from the array of beautiful women in pictures with him on Facebook, John’s probably misreading the situation anyway.

He keeps telling himself that even as he’s dialling his mobile. It goes to voice mail. “Nick, hi. It’s, uh, John Watson. From yesterday. At the-- Well. I just wanted to check on you and see if you were still all right. Ring me sometime and we’ll go to the pub again. Cheers.” He leaves his number and hangs up, feeling like a fool.

He goes off for an afternoon shift at the surgery and turns off his phone. He has to resist the urge to check it all afternoon between patients. It turns out to be a moot point. When he leaves the surgery, there are no messages waiting for him. 

Later, over takeaway at his laptop, John resists the urge to dig a little deeper into Nick Chapin’s internet presence. His behavior is verging on disturbing and he tries to think about something else, anything else. He manages to divert himself, until he remembers the woman’s name on the tombstone. Giving in, he searches for information on her. 

He finds her obituary, which is stark in comparison to the ones around it, full of gushing warmth about family and friends that will miss the deceased. All he learns is that Maya Lahan was a doctor and that she died from injuries sustained in an auto accident. He can find no connection between her and Nick Chapin, although he does find a news article--one of those “isn’t the world a sad, funny old place” features--that talks about how her long-term partner (unnamed in the article) was found murdered just days prior to her death.

John’s still thinking about that as he’s clearing away after eating, when his mobile rings. He lets it ring twice before answering with what he hopes is a casual tone. “John Watson.”

“Hello, John. It’s Nick Chapin.” 

He fights a ridiculous grin. “Oh, hello.”

“To answer your question,” Nick sounds like he’s smiling, “I’m fine. Thank you for checking up on me.”

“Well, it was the least I could do, really.” John tries to think of something clever to say, and fails miserably. 

“Listen,” Nick says, and now he’s definitely smiling, John can hear it, :”I know this is an odd thing to say to someone you met in a cemetery, but are you free tomorrow night?”

“I--”

“If I’ve assumed the wrong thing--”

“No, not at all,” John says, feeling his cheeks heat up. “I’d love to.”

“I hear a ‘but’ in that answer,” Nick says.

John scrubs his hand across his face and tries not to screw this up. “No, well, not really. I, erm... oh hell. It hasn’t been very long for me. Since I lost someone.”

“You don’t have to call it a date if that makes you feel better,” Nick says. “I’d just like to see you again.”

And how in the hell can John say no to _that_? 

\---

When everything around Lucas North started to fall apart, he had a plan. Lucas, like the good little soldier he was, tried so hard to keep things going. He’d lied, he’d killed, he’d done anything and everything he could to survive, to keep his little false world intact. When it shattered, John Bateman stepped in. He had his own plan: take everything he could and run. But then his reason for running bled out in the passenger seat of a Range Rover, and plans changed. John Bateman decided to burn the whole fucking system to the ground, starting from the top. John Bateman was ready to shoot Harry Pearce in the back of the head, kill him once and for all and take revenge for all of the things Lucas North suffered. 

Maybe it was Lucas who’d held back, out of love for the old bastard, or some twisted sense of obligation. It was Lucas who stepped to the edge of that rooftop, fully expecting to die.

Who is he then, this third who walked away from Harry Pearce and goes on living each and every day? Not Nick Chapin. 

He still kills for a living, just like in MI-5. Occasionally he still even does it in the name of the Queen, although no one could ever prove that. In his picture-perfect flat is a box that contains several identities, ready-made for him to step into. But none of them are him, not the way Lucas was him, and definitely not the way John Bateman was him.

He is nameless. It’s better this way. John Bateman watched Maya Lahan die in his arms. Lucas North lived a lie for fifteen years and spent eight of those years in Hell in hopes of getting a piece of his soul back. Better to be Joe or David or Nick Chapin or no one at all than either of them.

He pulls on his jacket and a friendly face with the same thoughtless ease, and goes to meet John Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

“It sounds like you would have been better off if they’d been aiming at you instead,” Nick is saying, catching John about to take a long drink. 

John stops himself before choking and laughs. “That’s what _I_ said!” The two of them laugh together and John marvels at how easy this is.

“You sound like you miss it,” Nick says, playing with the rim of his glass. Everything about him, the tilt of his head, the little smile, screams that he’s flirting with John, and he’s starting to wonder where this night might end up.

“I do, sometimes,” John says, giving Nick a smile of his own--and there it is, that little spark between them. He lets himself get pulled in by Nick’s bright blue eyes, and for a few moments neither of them speaks. Finally John clears his throat. “What about you? Ten years in Russia, you said? What was _that_ like? What did you do there?”

For a split second, John sees something shutter itself in Nick’s eyes, then the impression is gone, and he looks as open as ever. “Most of the time I was working with the local authorities there. Translation mostly.” He smiles wryly. “Facilitating communication between the Russian government and ours. It’s not as exciting as you might think.”

“Sounds a hell of a lot better than getting your arse shot at in the desert by your own air force.” John grins, relaxing a little.

Nick laughs. “True. It was probably a little better.” His eyes are twinkling as he reaches across the table and covers one of John’s hands with his own. His touch is warm and steady. “I’m glad you made it back safe and sound.”

“Me too,” John says, and turns his hand palm up beneath Nick’s. A mad sort of recklessness seizes him, and he drags his fingertips along the inside of Nick’s wrist and across his palm. He sees Nick’s eyes widen, sees the little sharp intake of breath. Then he smiles at John.

John mentally squares his shoulders and says, “Want to get out of here?”

\---

Sex with men isn’t an unfamiliar thing for him. Sooner or later, everyone he worked with had to seduce someone to get information. Usually it fell to the women like Ros and Jo, but every once in a while a man was required. And every once in a while the target wasn’t female. 

Prison had taught him that sex could be a matter of survival.

So while he might not have ever tried to pull someone like John Watson at a pub, he isn’t entirely repulsed. If nothing else, he’s learned how to make his target happy without giving away too much about himself. And that’s something he’s never managed to learn with women.

\---

They wind up back at John’s place,drinking tea while sitting on his battered sofa. The charged atmosphere is still there; it’s the kind that doesn’t spike into biting and growling sex against a closed door, but that simmers along until it slowly boils over.

They’ve been quiet for a few minutes, sitting turned in towards each other. John takes a breath and says, “I just wanted... for you to know, I don’t think either of us is looking for anything, well, serious right now, and I--” That’s as far as he gets before Nick leans in and kisses him gently.

“Don’t overthink it,” Nick says, leaning his forehead against John’s. Then he kisses John again, reaching up to cradle John’s head between his enormous hands. John doesn’t give in so much as melt against him. There’s a voice at the back of his head that says he shouldn’t, that it’s too soon. That it somehow hurts Sherlock’s memory. There’s an answering surge of anger in John’s mind. _Then he shouldn’t have fucking jumped off a building and left me._

Something snaps in John at that, and he lets go, parting his lips to start returning Nick’s kiss with unrestrained hunger. Nick makes a surprised little sound into John’s mouth, then relaxes against him. John reaches up and touches his face, scooting in closer. Here’s proof that it’s too soon: John keeps getting distracted by the unfamiliarity of the lips against his, and the curve of the jawline under his fingers is wrong. He ignores it. Emotions aren’t wanted here, only the physical and biochemical reactions happening, the stimuli and response of nerve endings and skin.

He shutters the part of his brain that wants someone else’s lips against his, that wants to warn him against what he’s doing, and slides his hand around the back of Nick’s neck. John shifts himself until he’s curled against Nick with his back to the sofa. The kiss is still slow and lazy, teasing touches of tongue, now and then a daring swipe into the deeper reaches of John’s mouth that leaves him breathless. When they finally break for breath, Nick is smiling at him. Christ, those eyes. Where Sherlock’s eyes were kaleidoscopic, Nick’s are only blue, brilliant, vivid blue.

Nick brushes his hand down John’s cheek and under his chin. “All right?”

John nods, unable to form words at first. “Y-yeah. _Yes_.” He’s the first to lean in this time, and he’s through being subtle. When Nick teases his way into John’s mouth this time, John sucks on his tongue in unabashedly fellatory manner, and gets a satisfying groan in response.

It gets easier then. They pass control of the kiss back and forth between them like a football until Nick nudges him backwards and John winds up lying on his back on the couch, his legs tangled with Nick’s. 

Nick braces his hands to either side of John’s head and and starts mouthing at John’s jaw. John wraps his arms around Nick’s back and pulls him closer, tilting his head back. It feels a little bit dangerous, a reptile part of his brain warning against baring his throat to a stranger, against making himself vulnerable to attack. That little bit of fear, predictably, turns John on even more, so that his hands are shaking when he feels a tickling brush of teeth and stubble against his neck and under his jaw.

John wedges his thigh between Nick’s and when Nick responds by rolling his hips downwards, John is lost for a moment. He arches up and is only aware of Nick’s lips moving down his neck, the scrape of his teeth, and the heat pressed against his thigh. 

Sense returns briefly, and John wonders if he should suggest they move to his bed, but then Nick pulls back and starts unbuttoning John’s shirt. John dismisses the thought of moving anywhere. He reaches up to return the favor, but Nick stops him, covering both of John’s hands with his. He looks down at John and smiles with a little shake of his head. Before John can wonder if maybe he’s offended, Nick slides a hand slowly over John’s newly bared chest. “Let me,” Nick murmurs. John nods--that voice, so low and with just a hint of a rasp, is difficult to refuse.

Nick spreads John’s shirt open and curls his fingers down the length of John’s chest, nails not quite biting into skin. He smiles when John shivers, then leans down for another kiss. The rough drag of Nick’s callused palm down John’s belly makes him squirm until Nick presses down to hold him still.

When John stops squirming, Nick slides his hand down under John’s back and lowers himself so he’s resting on top of John. His body is heavy and warm, and quivering with tension. John can feel it running through the muscles of Nick’s chest and stomach, and strangely, it calms him to know he’s not the only one with uncertainty. John arches again, and wraps his arms around Nick’s neck, pulling him down for a slow, easy, undemanding kiss. Nick’s arms tighten and he slides one hand down John’s side, trailing down the outside of his leg.

John’s focus narrows down to pure sensation: shared body heat, the rustle of thin cotton against his bare chest from Nick’s shirt, the growing discomfort of his jeans that pairs with the teasing friction of Nick’s thigh dragging against John’s crotch. He can hear their twinned breaths, a little quick, a little shallow, the soft wet sound of each kiss, the moisture from Nick’s lips clinging to John’s neck as he leaves another trail of kisses. It’s like moving through heavy fog, slow and dreamlike.

John realises that Nick’s free hand is inching up the inside of his knee and makes an embarrassing whimper. There’s no shame in being eager, there’s not. John keeps reminding himself of that even as he’s spreading his legs to make that eagerness utterly clear.

The first gentle pressure of Nick’s hand cupping him through his jeans is enough to make John bite his lip against a cry. He rocks his hips into Nick’s hand, and Nick obliges with slow, even strokes that match the pace of his tongue over John’s throat. It’s blindingly good, good enough that John worries about coming in his pants if it keeps up.

John tilts Nick’s head to bring him back up for a hard kiss, relentless in his desire to give some sort of pleasure back. His mouth muffles a low groan from Nick, low and gravelly enough to make John’s hips buck against Nick’s hand. John tries drag his hand down Nick’s back, wanting to touch his hips, his arse, _something_ , but Nick pushes his hands down, and goes back to kissing his way down John’s chest. When he tugs at the button at John’s waistband, John can’t help but groan a quiet ‘yes’.

He opens his eyes to find that Nick is watching his face closely. The intense gaze unsettles him, so reminiscent of Sherlock. And yet--there’s something comforting about it, and he shivers at the awareness that he is being so minutely observed, pinned by a pair of eyes dissecting his every reaction. John yields to it, sinking back and giving over.

He’s rewarded by a cool brush of air against overheated skin as Nick undoes his flies and tugs his pants down. John licks at his lower lip and tries not to arch up, failing when Nick’s hand--long-fingered and broad-palmed, John had definitely noticed before--wraps around John’s swollen cock. John hisses as Nick starts to stroke, and John is aware again of Nick’s mouth trailing against his belly.

Just thinking about what’s likely to come next makes his thighs quiver. 

“This okay?” Nick murmurs against his skin, sounding as unsteady as John feels. “Tell me what you like.”

John laughs shakily. “Right now, anything.” He groans as Nick squeezes him a little tighter, the groan rising to a whine when he feels the tip of Nick’s tongue just barely brush against his frenulum. 

He hears a ripping sound, and the next thing he feels is the slick coolness of a condom rolling down his cock. He opens his eyes to see Nick hovering back over him, and as he watches, Nick takes him in hand again. Their eyes meet and hold while Nick takes John into his mouth. John fights to keep his eyes open, manages to do little more than flutter his eyelids. 

It’s so good, even through the latex. John’s likely to humiliate himself in very short order. Although he misses the wet slide of skin on skin as Nick starts sucking, the heat of his mouth translates beautifully against John’s nerve endings, as does the slow, sweet friction of Nick’s lips wrapped around his cock.

John finally gives in to the urge to drop his head back and close his eyes, reaching down to rest one hand against Nick’s stubble-shadowed cheek. Nick makes a soft murmuring sound and vibrates right up John’s spine, then John hears another zip being unfastened, and another sound of ripping foil packaging. He’s amused at Nick’s neatness for about three seconds, before Nick gasps around him, relaxing his mouth enough to moan hot breath and nearly sub-sonic vibrations down the length of John’s cock.

That’s John nearly done for. He writhes beneath Nick, arching towards his mouth, begging him silently to move faster, harder, more. He starts babbling between gasps. “Want to touch you. WIsh I was touching you.” Nick doesn’t oblige him, disappointingly, so John clings to the couch cushions until the blind, bucking pleasure takes over, squeezing him tight and wringing him out, leaving him limp against the upholstery. 

Once he’s done, Nick moves his mouth to John’s inner thigh, making him jump. He bites and kisses and licks, his breath getting more and more unsteady until his body jerks once, twice, and then he slumps with his forehead against John’s knee.

John reaches down and strokes his fingers into the short dark hair, earning him a smile when Nick turns to face him. John says, “That was--”

“Yes,” Nick says. “It was.”

It’s a nice surprise when Nick is the one to deal with the clean up ( _there’s one bonus for condoms_ , John thinks), then comes back to curl up with John on the couch. “Budge over,” Nick says.

John does, and they lie together silently for several long moments. “You hadn’t--not since--” Nick begins.

“No,” John says. “You?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but nuzzles at John’s neck. Finally he says, “Not like this.” John assumes maybe that he means ‘not with a man’. He’s not equipped to deal with any sort of heterosexual breakdown, so he doesn’t push for more.

When Nick finally leaves John’s flat, it’s with a soft kiss goodnight, and a promise to call him soon. John thinks he might like that.

\---

He takes a hot shower as soon as he gets back to his flat. There’s nothing physical to scrub away really, and there’s certainly no sense of guilt or shame--he’s well past the point of feeling shame for his job. There is, however, an odd, underlying sense of disappointment that he can’t quite pin down.

It went well. Watson is on the hook. There’s likely a growing attachment to Nick Chapin happening there, for all his protests to the contrary. The intelligence he’s had all along on John Watson indicates that he’s not the sort of man who normally indulges physically without at least some hint of a connection, and that connection was definitely there.

Another date, maybe two, and he’ll be able to start asking the difficult questions, the ones about Sherlock Holmes’s death. And then he’ll find out what Watson knows. And then he’ll finish the job.

The sense of unease doesn’t go away with the shower. He chalks it up to the problems of getting aroused without ever finding release. It was an easy thing to fake, an old trick of his. 

It’s frustrating though--this has never been a problem before. Arousal--or at least the appearance of it--used to be something he could turn on and off like a light switch. Maybe it’s been too long since he’s played the honey trap. Or maybe it’s just been too long.

He debates just taking care of the issue, but at the thought of touching himself, John Watson’s face rises up in front of him, the thin but soft lines of his mouth and the way they opened to him.

When John had begged to touch him, he’d nearly relented, although he’d known that way lay madness.

That’s the problem. It isn’t that he didn’t come, it’s that he wanted to.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re in a good mood today,” observes Carol, one of the nurses at the surgery.

John grins. He _had_ been whistling. “Sorry,” he says. “It won’t happen again.”

Carol, a plump grandmotherly type who’s brilliant with the kids who come through their doors, pats his arm. “It’s good to see you smile again, Doctor Watson. We’ve been a little worried about you, you know.”

“Thanks, I’m doing all right, I think.”

She smiles at him. “Your next patient is here. Should I bring him back?”

“Ready!” he says.

As he goes through his day, he tries not to look too carefully at his shift in mood. He knows a lot of its to do with Nick. It’s easy to tell himself it’s just because he got off with a gorgeous man, and that it doesn’t mean anything more than that.

He emphatically does not check his phone during the course of the afternoon.

When he ends his shift and heads home, he tells himself that the message waiting for him from Nick is a pleasant surprise, not a searing relief.

It’s almost easy to believe it.

\---

They agree to meet at a quiet restaurant not far from John’s flat. While he waits for John to arrive, he considers his course of action. He hadn’t planned to contact John again so soon. There is danger here, and he wants the space in order to clear his head. He would have given it a few days--that would’ve had the added bonus of increasing John’s sense of desperation, and likely deepening his attachment to Nick. But he’d received a text from his employer, who is a very impatient man. 

He thinks he’s figured out how to bring up John’s past, how to carefully probe for any further information John might have. No. _Watson_. Watson is his target. Thinking of him as John is a stupid, dangerous rookie mistake. 

Now all he has to do is wait.

Watson is a punctual man, so he doesn’t wait long. He rises to his feet when Watson approaches, and smiles at him when they both sit down. 

“You haven’t been waiting long?” 

He shakes his head. “I just got here.” He’s been there an hour, but Watson doesn’t need to know that.

“Lovely place,” Watson says, looking around the interior. “Reminds me of another place I used to go.”

Of course it does. He knows all about Angelo’s, and he knows this place is strikingly similar. “Oh, you don’t go there anymore?”

Watson smiles, but there’s evident sadness around his eyes. “Oh, you know how it is. Memories.” He waves it away and looks at the menu. “Anything you recommend?”

If he wants to get the man into a mood to reminisce, he’s clearly brought him to the right place. “I’ve never had anything bad here,” he says. It’s true. He’s never eaten here before tonight.

They order, and sip wine while they wait for the food. Watson’s drinking at a faster pace than he is, which is to the good. 

“I feel like I should apologise,” he says, wearing an abashed face.

“Unless you’re about to tell me you’re married and this has all been a lie, I think you’re safe,” Watson says with a smile. 

He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, I’m not married. Once, but that was a long time ago.” He twists the stem of his wine glass in his fingers. “No, I might have snooped about you a little bit. Your name was familiar.” He can see Watson’s face tense. Time to tread carefully. “I had no idea, John. I’m so sorry.” Should he reach out to touch him? Hard to read. He doesn’t want to give him a chance to pull away.

Watson lifts his glass and drains it. His mouth is in a thin line as he swallows. “You would have found out sooner or later, I suppose.”

“It--it doesn’t change anything for me,” he says. Deceit is so easy when you can achieve it with the truth. 

“Then you’re not like most of the people I used to know,” Watson says.

Before either of them can say more the first of the food arrives. They both stay quiet until the waiter is gone. 

“You deserve better than that, John.” He does reach out now, a simple hand-squeeze.

The sound Watson makes bears only a bitter, passing resemblance to a laugh. “From my friends, or from Sherlock?” He stabs viciously into his salad. 

“Both.” He pauses, toying with his own salad. “I know we haven’t known each other long, but if you need an ear...”

“Thanks.” Watson’s shoulders loosen a bit, and he actually starts eating. 

\---

After Nick tells him about Sherlock, John half-expects him to get up and leave. It’s happened before. John knows he’s toxic to anyone who wants to keep their career with Scotland Yard, so he’s lost a host of friends and acquaintances he met through Sherlock. Really, he only ever sees Stamford anymore, and Harry. And neither of them terribly often.

John has always been a social man, and that loss of his circle hurts almost as much as the loss of Sherlock himself. He’s not daft--he knows that’s part of the reason why he’s taken to Nick so quickly. It was, after all, one of the reasons Sherlock was able to come in and take over his life. He doesn’t get the same sense from Nick. Nick isn’t a whirlwind waiting to sweep John away, clearing everything in his path. He seems... more steady than that. 

He wonders what Mycroft would say if he could see him now. ‘Trust issues.’ 

Loneliness can overcome a great of reticence with him, it seems. All the more reason to be careful. 

As they’re eating dessert, John is still reminding himself to be careful. He vows to be more reserved.

He manages to keep that promise right up until they’re leaving the restaurant, and John hears himself inviting Nick back to his place for coffee.

\---

With the door to the past open, it should be easy. He should be gloating at how easily this job is going. He’ll have the information he needs soon--possibly as soon as tonight. So why is he so damned uneasy?

He follows Watson up to his flat, trying to shake the feeling. There’s a twinge in his gut and the feeling of his pulse pounding in his temples. It can’t be from the wine at dinner--he was careful not to drink too much. As they reach the landing of the first story, he’s struck with the memory of how John felt beneath him, the way he’d watched all of John’s defences slowly crumble.

But that’s the point. That’s what he’s supposed to be doing.

John unlocks his flat and turns around to say something to him. Before he can, he leans down and kisses John on impulse. He gets a smile in return. “Should I not bother to make coffee then?” John says, swinging the door open and letting them both into the flat.

“No, I don’t know about you, but I feel awake already.” He shuts the door behind him and pulls John back towards him, pulling him in for another kiss.

This is not the plan. This is not the result of strategic thinking. All he can focus on is the feel of John’s mouth beneath his. For a moment he doesn’t care what John might have to say; he just wants to keep him too busy to say anything.

Sanity wins out, and he pulls away, but not before John can follow after him, licking into his mouth and making his knees tremble. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not sure where that came from.”

John grins and reaches out to hook a finger into one of his belt loops and pull him back. “I don’t think I was protesting, was I?”

“Well no, but--”

“Shut up, Nick,” John says, and pulls him down for another kiss.

It’s a role. It’s just a role that he’s playing. He can enjoy it as much as he wants, as long as he keeps the objective in mind. Get John--Watson--talking. 

The objective. Don’t forget the objective.

Meanwhile John is drawing him into the bedroom, and his heart is pounding harder. He starts undressing John again, but John stops him, and and manoeuvres him around so that John can push him down onto the bed.

He doesn’t resist, and lands against the lumpy mattress with a small bounce. For all that John is a small man in comparison to him, he’s taking control right now and isn’t giving it up.

John crawls up his body while unbuttoning his own shirt, then he bites along shoulder and neck, murmuring, “It’s your turn tonight, Nick,” leaning up to breathe in his ear, “Let me.”

He wants this. He can’t remember if he’s ever felt such a disconnect between body and mind, one demanding skin on skin and rough kisses and hands, the other demanding order, demanding that the facade go back up.

He can be Nick, just for a little while. Just for tonight. He lets out a breath and goes under.

“Yes,” Nick says. “God yes.”

When John reaches down to unbutton his shirt, Nick doesn’t stop him, but shivers as the thin crisp cotton pulls away from his body. He knows the vest top beneath doesn’t cover enough, that John will see and ask questions. 

Once the shirt has been pulled away and his arms are bare, John lets out a low whistle. “You didn’t tell me about this,” he teases, leaning down to smear his mouth over the tattoo over Nick’s left shoulder ( _no, it’s not Nick’s, Nick never got a tattoo_ ). “What else are you hiding under there?”

Nick smiles and rolls over, taking John with him. He settles between John’s legs, feeling how hard he is, how hard they both are. He leans down and nuzzles at John’s neck, triggering the same arching motion, baring his throat so Nick can bite and lick his way to John’s ear. “Only one way to find out.”

John takes the challenge, and runs his hands up Nick’s back, tugging the vest out of Nick’s trousers, then running his hands up his back again, this time beneath the shirt, while Nick bites and sucks with a sudden fierce urge to mark John’s throat, to leave behind a sign that he was here. John pulls the shirt up and over Nick’s head, nudging him away long enough to pull the shirt off his arms and toss it aside.

“Damn,” John says, holding Nick away from him while he traces the design carved into Nick’s chest. “This is familiar, I’ve seen this...” He traces fingers along the shape of the man’s hair, down to where he wields a great Compass in the act of Creation.

“This is a distraction,” Nick murmurs, trying to lean back down to John’s mouth.

“Wait, this one I know,” John says, pausing just above the waist of Nick’s trousers. “It means ‘know thyself’ doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He reaches down and catches John’s wrist, pushing it back to the mattress and leaning in to kiss him again. They rut against one another while they kiss, hips grinding together despite layers of trousers and pants. Nick can hardly breathe, and gives in when John rolls them once more.

“I said it was your turn,” John growls, and he slides down to take one of Nick’s nipples into his mouth. The sudden wet heat of it makes Nick sigh and arch, head spinning at the thought of that sweet wetness moving elsewhere, the thought of John kneeling between his legs and taking him in his mouth. He stares at the ceiling wide-eyed and tries to breathe as John moves lower, his mouth trailing along the image of Blake’s _Ancient of Days_. Common sense tries to break through, tells him it isn’t too late to stop, to get the walls back up, but he knows that’s not true. It was too late the minute he agreed to come back here with John.

John draws Nick’s attention back with a jerk by slowly mouthing the shape of his cock through his trousers, hot breath seeping through the material. He looks down to see John watching him, an almost patient look in his eyes, as if he’s been waiting for Nick to come back from woolgathering. Once he sees that Nick is watching him again, John tugs at the zip of Nick’s trousers.

“Lift,” John says, and when he does, John pulls away trousers and pants and all. “ _Christ_ ,” John says, staring openly at Nick’s erection. “That’s gorgeous.” He crawls back up, running his hands up Nick’s thighs. He’s leaning down and about to take him in, when he stops and looks up. “Shit, I didn’t think--should I get--” 

“You don’t have to,” Nick says. “I--” he scrambles for a lie, something other than _I needed to keep my distance_ , “I don’t like the taste, sorry.”

John flashes him a bone-melting grin. “Don’t worry. Orgasms are always a good way to make sure my feelings aren’t hurt.” He trails his tongue down the length of Nick’s cock, and Nick is lost.

He drops his head back with a moan that feels like it’s coming from the pit of his very being. John takes it for the encouragement it is, and drags his lips down the length of the shaft, running along the side and back up again. He doesn’t hurry at anything, and the pleasure of it is sinking into the marrow of Nick’s bones.

John seems to be everywhere: nuzzling against his thigh, gently sucking one of his balls into his mouth, then suddenly, shockingly, taking the entire length of him into his mouth at once, lips wrapped loosely almost at the very base. When he starts to suck, Nick curls his fingers into the sheets like he’s holding on for dear life. He’s barely aware of the noises he’s making at this point. John is so... so... unguarded. He’s making little mewling noises as he sucks, and Nick can see the way he’s rutting against the edge of the bed, clearly turned on beyond reason by what he’s doing and how Nick’s reacting.

Nick reaches down to trail the fingers of one hand through John’s hair. John glances up at him and smiles before closing his eyes and humming in pleasure, sliding all the way up to trace intricate figures with his tongue. It’s like nothing Nick’s ever felt before. The warmth is spreading through his entire body, it feels as if the tips of his hair are on fire for god’s sake. He wants to say something, to tell John how it feels, but all he can do is growl and groan. 

John curls his fingers into Nick’s hips and seems to focus more intently, his head bobbing up and down, his mouth tight, agonizingly good and tight. He tries to writhe, to thrust his hips against John’s mouth, but John keeps him pinned down and controls the pace, the intensity, everything. It’s so easy to just let go, to accept that he’s not in control, that he doesn’t have to be in control.

His thoughts blow apart like a house of cards in a windstorm, flying this way and that, drifting along in the unseen current. John is too much and not enough at the same time. “John--” he tries to warn him, to say something, but it only drives John to keep going, to speed up just the tiniest bit, intent on fucking more than being fucked.

The orgasm hits and rockets through his body, every spasm in his cock sending a rush of tingling pleasure from his center out, pushing anything else--thought, tension, anything not pure pleasure--in its path like a tsunami. When it passes, the feeling of John’s mouth is too much, and Nick reaches down to him. John kisses his way up his body, nestling against his shoulder. He’s still hard, Nick can feel him pressing against his hip. There is nothing Nick wants more, at that moment, than to give back some of the pleasure.

He’s too lethargic and sated in the afterglow to do anything so active as take John in his mouth, but he does have his hands, and he’d seen the way John watched his hands last night. He rolls onto his side and kisses John, reaching down to cup his cock in both hands, dragging palms and fingers over the hot, soft skin.

John gasps, and instantly looks down to watch, a low whine pulled from his throat. Nick can feel where he’d been wet--wet and likely had rubbed it into the coverlet, rutting against the bed. He licks his fingers and strokes again. He watches John, and John watches his hands. It doesn’t take long at all. When John comes, he bites at his lips hard, like he’s holding something back. 

They lay together despite the mess. John is quiet, curled against his shoulder. “All right?” Nick finally says, brushing his lips over John’s hair. 

“I’m sorry,” John says. “It was--I shouldn’t--” The words come out in hard chunks. Then finally, quieter, “I still miss him.”

It’s the opening he needs, and he’s torn between taking it and letting it pass in order to offer comfort. He takes a middle road. “Your Sherlock?”

“It’s stupid, but sometimes I can’t believe he’s dead.”

“I felt the same way,” he says, and it’s the truth. 

“But he is. I saw him. I saw him. He fucking made sure that I would see him. The bastard.” John isn’t crying, he’s angry. He recognises that rage. If it turns out that Sherlock Holmes isn’t actually dead, he hopes he’ll have a chance to kill him. Without thinking, he turns over to retrieve his vest, thinking to clean them up and pull John into his arms.

It isn’t until he hears John’s sudden intake of breath that he realises his mistake. “Wow,” John says. 

He quickly turns over and starts wiping them both up. “You know how it is, young and stupid,” he says. His back is a monument to the eight years Lucas North lost in Russia. He’s been too far removed from Lucas for too long, and had forgotten. 

John seems glad for the distraction. “What do they mean?”

He smiles. “They mean I was an idiot with too much money in a foreign country. Now come here.” He pulls John in and tries to kiss away what he’s seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some decent images of Lucas's tattoos [here](http://manedwolfdotwordpressdotcom.wordpress.com/2012/04/11/lucas-north-tattoo/) and [here](http://ancient-ofdays.dreamwidth.org/762.html), as well as a breakdown of their meanings in Russian prison culture.


	4. Chapter 4

When John wakes the next morning, Nick is gone, but there’s a message waiting for him on his mobile: _Emergency at work. I didn’t want to wake you. Talk soon._

He smiles and turns over, stretching indulgently before looking at the time. Hours before he has to be at the clinic. Nothing sounds so good right now as a nice lie-in. He replays the night before over and over again in his mind. Soon enough, he’ll need to get up and shower and get dressed, but for now, he wants to stay in his bed, still warm, still holding the scent of another human being--another specific human being. 

It isn’t until an hour later, as he’s making tea and toast, that he realises it’s the first time in months that his first waking thought wasn’t of Sherlock.

The shock of it hits him hard enough that he has to set down the butter knife and lean on the counter. It should be a sign that he’s getting over it, but it still feels a little like a betrayal. 

_I’m sorry, Sherlock,_ he thinks. _I’d say you’d be happy that I’m moving on, but I know you. You’d be a grumpy, possessive sod about it._ The thought makes him smile, and makes it a little easier to breathe again.

\---

Nick sneaks out of the flat before John can wake up. He picks up his discarded clothing like a regretful uni student after a one-night stand gone bad, and dresses in the sitting room. Once he’s safely away, he sends John a text apologising.

And spends his entire trip back to his flat trying to get his mind back in order. He’s not Nick. Nick can ignore the text message that came in from his employer, but he can’t. John is Watson again. The wall is back up. 

Nick never existed in the first place, and in less than twenty-four hours, when this job is finished, he’ll stop existing again.

Once he’s back in the flat, he takes out what he thinks of as his work phone and thumbs to the message once again, to be sure.

_Patient made a full recovery. The doctor is no longer needed. Dismiss him._

Sherlock Holmes had somehow survived his fall. His original contract was reinstated. John Watson would be dead within twenty-four hours.

\---

Mr Harvey is a man about John’s age, according to his chart, but he looks much older. He’s haggard and has the sallow skin of a man with a damaged liver. The stomach issues he presents with, in fact, are consistent with a long-term heavy drinker. John is about to address the man’s drinking habits when he notices the tattoo on his left hand, between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a pattern of five dots in a square: four corners and one dot in the middle. 

“Oh,” he says, “a friend of mine has a tattoo like that.”

Mr Harvey raises a shaggy eyebrow. “You got nice friends, eh Doc?”

“What do you mean?”

“You get that one doing porridge, mate.” He shoves his other hand out, and points at a single smudgy black dot. “That’s a Borstal dot, that is. Don’t see too many of them no more.” 

John thinks of the thick, blurry-edged lines of Nick’s tattoos and mentally compares them to the hands in front of him. “They closed the Borstals years ago, I thought.”

“They did,” Mr Harvey says. “I was one of the last in.”

John forces himself to smile, gesturing to the original tattoo. “So what’s that one mean, then?”

“Eh, mostly just means you been in prison,” he says. “Other meaning, beggin’ your pardon, Doc, it’s not very nice. The five Fs.”

“Ah, yes. I’m familiar with what those are.” John pulls his doctor persona back on again and looks at Mr Harvey’s chart. “Now, we’ll need to run a few tests to be sure...”

Later, as he’s catching up on some paperwork before leaving, he does a quick web search for ‘prison tattoos’, and then, as an after thought, adds ‘Russia’.

The very first link he follows has more information than he really wanted. Every single tattoo he can remember on Nick’s body has some sort of relevant meaning. The man he’d had in his bed the night before had--according to the ink on his skin--been in a Russian prison for at least eight years, had possibly tried to escape, and had spent time in solitary confinement.

John sits back at his computer, staring blankly at the screen. Photos of Russian convicts stare back at him, all of them heavily marked with the same blurred dark lines that Nick is.

He switches to look at Nick’s Facebook page. There are no gaps in his employment history--not like he’d put ‘Russian gulag’ on his resume, of course. So he’s lying. Is he really Nick Chapin? Is it a witness protection scheme of some sort?

_You know how you could find out._ John hasn’t spoken to Mycroft since about a month after Sherlock’s death. If anyone can find out Nick’s real identity from a physical description, it would be Mycroft. _You’re going to call your dead boyfriend’s brother to have him do a background check on your latest fling? Nothing weird about that._

For a moment, just a moment, he wonders if it’s more than just someone trying to escape his past. John wonders if there’s something more sinister afoot. Which is ridiculous, frankly. Sherlock was the one who attracted the dangerous ones, not John.

He shuts down his computer, and heads for home.

\---

He decides the most obvious place to kill John is in his flat. Smaller chance of a witness, and Watson doesn’t seem the type to have told his friends about who he’s seeing. In fact, from what he’s seen, Watson doesn’t seem the type who has friends at all. Not anymore. He considers the question of how. 

A gun is the obvious choice, but for the problem of the noise. Does he wait until Watson turns his back and then garrotte him? It would be silent, but it would also be intimate. Perhaps too intimate, given what’s passed between them. 

He imagines, just for a moment, what that would be like, to feel a familiar body fighting against him, to finally feel it go limp. John would fight. They would struggle together in a very different way than they had the night before.

Nick makes it to the kitchen sink barely in time, vomiting up the scant breakfast he’d eaten that morning. Heave after heave leaves him clinging to the kitchen counter, his head hanging over the stainless steel, grimacing. His hand shakes as he turns on the faucet, washing first the sink, then his face. When he goes to brush the sour taste out of his mouth, he watches his reflection in the mirror.

He can’t do it. 

He’ll have to run. Maybe convince John to come with him. It isn’t love, but it’s something, and neither of them has much of anything in London anyway. Maybe tell him the truth. Maybe tell him that Holmes is alive. Would John leave with him then? What would _he_ do, if someone told him it was a mistake, that Maya was still alive?

John wouldn’t come with him. 

Nick spits into the sink and wipes his mouth. When he meets his own eyes in the mirror, he isn’t sure what he sees. He hears a voice in his head that he hasn’t heard in years, the man who made him who he was.

_“I wonder if you can even remember the truth of what you were.”_

He could. For fifteen years, he did good work, he risked his life for his country. That made up for anything else he might have done before, didn’t it?

He scrubbed at his forehead and snarled in frustration. Harry Pearce, that bastard. Harry of all people should have understood what it was like to be broken and remade. Instead Harry had looked at him with disgust, with hatred.

He tried to imagine the same expression on John’s face.

_“You’re a killer, who fell asleep and dreamed he was a hero. Now it’s time to wake up and remember the truth.”_

He’s killed friends before, when it needed to be done. He can do it again. He looks in the mirror and watches masks form and fall away from his face: John Bateman, Lucas North, Nick Chapin.

_“The dream is over now, and the killer is awake.”_

He straightens once more and lets the Nick Chapin mask settle. If he leaves now, he can be waiting at Watson’s flat when he gets home from work.

\---

As soon as John opens the door, he knows the flat isn’t empty. Instinct, he would say. Sherlock would have said it was a disturbance in the air, a wrong smell. His skin prickles with anticipation, somewhere between excitement and fear. Either way, he closes the door behind him. He flicks the light switch on and finds Nick sitting in a chair facing the door. 

“Hello, Nick.” He keeps his tone neutral, but his pulse starts to race.

Nick rises from the chair with predatory grace. His body language is all wrong, but John is transfixed. _This is who he really is_ , he thinks. 

“I’m sorry, John,” not-Nick says. “You’ve made some very powerful enemies, and I have a job to do.”

Without thinking, John reaches to the small of his back for the Browning that had kept him and Sherlock company, although he hasn’t carried it since--has it locked in a safety deposit box at the bank, in fact. 

“Ah-ah,” the man says, and has his own weapon out and leveled at John. “Hands up.”

John raises his hands, which are steady as a rock, no tremor. There’s no trace of the smiling man who’d kissed him last night in the stranger standing before him. “Who are you?”

“I’m no one,” he says. “Just a man hired to do a job.”

“Hired by who?”

He shakes his head.

“Is this because of Sherlock?”

“You don’t seem like the type of man who would make enemies on his own.” He smiles thinly, nothing like the smile John thought he would wake up to this morning. The honesty in the expression makes him wonder how he could have missed the lie before. 

“You didn’t seem like the type of man who’d hold another man at gunpoint,” John says, tongue darting over his bottom lip.

“Touche.”

“Why go through all this if you were just going to kill me?” John asks. Adrenaline, with its perversely calming rush, is flooding his system in hopes of his survival. 

“Information,” the man says. “The usual reason.”

“Did you get what you needed?” John keeps his tone level, cautious.

That earns him an actual chuckle, a flash of a surprised grin that is quickly suppressed. “And then some.”

“You’re, uh,” John clears his throat, “very good at your job.” He’s torn between punching him and snogging him, which is mad even by his standards. ‘Nick’ had been charming but cautious, this new, more dangerous version is intriguing. 

“I like to take pleasure in my work.” The weighted way he says ‘pleasure’ sends a sharp thrill up John’s spine. He’s flirting. He’s pointing a Glock 17 squarely at John’s chest, and has as good as promised to shoot him, and he’s _flirting_.

“I don’t think you really want to kill me,” John said, lowering his voice. “Do you?”

“What I want,” he said, his eyes briefly looking John up and down, “doesn’t matter here.”

John’s aware that any move he makes might be his last. If he’s misreading this, he’s dead. He locks eyes with his would-be assassin and takes a step forward. “It could.” He crooks a grin and takes another step. “You could think of it as a last request.” He reaches out, marveling that he’s still alive, and grasps the barrel of the Glock. He tugs, his pulse beating wildly in his head (and if he’s honest, his groin), and then the gun is his.

The moment hangs there. John could kill him, and that knowledge shivers in the few feet of air between them. Slowly, deliberately, John turns the weapon in his hand until his hand is on the grip. He raises it until it’s aimed at the man’s chest, and watches his sudden intake of breath. John lets him think he’s lost, just for a moment, then pops out the magazine into his palm. His eyes still on the other man’s, he thumbs out each cartridge from the magazine, letting them rain to the floor. Then he racks the slide and pops out the last cartridge from the chamber.

He replaces the magazine and closes the distance, setting the unloaded Glock on the table next to the armchair.

Another moment passes, then the man--Nick, not-Nick, whoever--slowly leans down and kisses John. John lets him finish, and when he straightens again, John grabs him by the shirt and spins him, shoving him against the doorframe with a resounding thud. “You lied to me,” John says, and gives him a shake before pulling him back down for another kiss. It turns hard, biting and fierce until the man puts his arms around John and pulls him in tight, hands curving around John’s arse and lifting until John is on tiptoe.

There are too many layers of clothing. John shrugs out of his jacket, still pressing hard against the other man, then grabs the man’s shirt like before and _pulls_ , sending buttons flying. He crowds into his space, tearing at the vest beneath the shirt as well, needing skin. He bites at the man’s neck hard enough to hear him wince. “Give me your name,” he says, knowing it will probably be a lie, and bites again, this time earning a growl.

“Lucas,” he gasps, and if he’s lying John doesn’t care, because then he catches John’s face in his hands and kisses him painfully hard. John slides his hands beneath the torn shirts and fists his hands at Lucas’s back. One of them is groaning, and John thinks it might be him. Lucas goes to his knees, pulling John with him, which is how John winds up on his back against the hardwood floor. 

It’s hard to breathe, with his body pinned between the hard floor and Lucas’s body. They’re at cross-purposes at first, trying to undress each other while still biting and kissing. John pushes Lucas’s hands back to his own jeans and things get much easier. Lucas shoves the now-tattered remains of John’s shirt aside and mouths at the scar on his shoulder before biting it. The pain is sharp and immediate and the way it rockets down John’s nerve endings is reminiscent of an orgasm, full-body and breath-stealing. He snarls and shoves his shoulder up into Lucas’s face. Lucas grunts but lets go, moving across John’s chest instead, still biting. The wetness feels wrong, and John looks down to realize he’s split Lucas’s lip, and there’s a smear of blood on his chest. 

He grabs Lucas by the back of the head, gripping the short hair and hauling him back up to kiss him again, running his tongue over the split he caused, tasting the coppery blood and knowing how it must sting. Instead of fighting back, Lucas arches against him and moans before shoving the rest of his own clothing away. Without breaking the kiss, he takes one of John’s hands and moves it down to his cock, which is hot and rigid. “You can hurt me,” he murmurs.

The words shake something loose in John, a beast roaring to life. He strokes the cock in his hand once, then lets go in favour of grabbing Lucas’s hip, pressing his thumb hard into the iliac crest. Lucas moans against John’s mouth and starts mouthing fevered kisses over John’s jaw. John tilts his head back and rakes his nails up Lucas’s back, feeling the skin catching beneath his fingers as Lucas jerks against him, making a something that sounds like a whimper.

John rolls them both over, then pushes his own jeans down and off before straddling Lucas, who is wide-eyed and panting beneath him. How far can he go? “You lied to me,” he says again. He curls the fingers of one hand around Lucas’s straining cock, then slaps him across the face with the other. The report is sharp and startling in the otherwise quiet room. Lucas grunts, and lets the momentum rock his head to the side. The red imprint of John’s hand shows up almost immediately as blood rushes beneath his skin.

Bending over him, John speaks quietly in his ear. “You came here planning to kill me.” He’s a little unnerved at how turned on he is, but lines up his erection with Lucas’s and starts to stroke the two of them together. “Now look at you.”

“It’s not just me,” is the reply, and deep rasp of his voice makes John shudder. “Maybe we’re both a little disturbed.”. 

John laughs, surprising himself, then runs his tongue up Lucas’s neck. “Stop talking.” He buries his flushed face against Lucas’s neck and ruts against him. After a moment he releases them both and lets their bodies provide the friction. They kiss and it’s like a fistfight, brutal and hard. John doesn’t stop clawing at Lucas’s skin, urged on by the way he writhes beneath him. At one point Lucas breaks off kissing him and just lets his head drop back, eyes closed and mouth open. John falls on him and attacks his throat, pinning his hands to the floor as he bites and sucks a bruise into Lucas’s skin. 

Lucas stiffens and then cries out, arching upwards so hard he nearly throws John off. John feels the slickness between their bellies, already growing sticky. He lets Lucas’s hands go and draws back. “On your hands and knees,” he says, already knowing he’ll be obeyed.

He is--Lucas turns over and rises up on all fours and John surveys the damage. His shirt and vest are ruined, and John can see red lines ranging along his hips and buttocks where John has scratched him. He pushes the remains of the shirt up and sees more scratches, criss-crossing over the dark tattoo ink, like someone has spattered the church domes with blood droplets. 

Lucas has his head lowered between his arms, a fine quiver running through his muscles like some high-strung horse. When John kneels behind him, he jumps and whimpers. John realises: he thinks John is going to fuck him. John wants to, but not dry, and he’s not stopping long enough to fix that now. Still, as with the gun, he lets Lucas think about it. He slides a hand between Lucas’s thighs and nudges them apart, trailing his fingers up along his perineum and between his buttocks. 

The sense of power is dizzying. John presses the tip of his finger against the hole just to watch Lucas shudder. He’s tempted. How much would it hurt? He slides just the tip of his finger inside and hears Lucas wince. There’s a wrongness to the very idea, like looking over the edge of a cliff and thinking about jumping. 

In the end, he backs away from the edge, guiding the head of his cock down the crack of his arse, then down, between his thighs. John bites his lip against the sweetness of the friction, air rushing out of his lungs when Lucas tightens his thighs. John wraps his fingers around Lucas’s hips and digs in a little harder than he might with someone else as he starts to thrust. It’s not enough. He leans over Lucas’s back, draping his weight there, wrapping his fingers around Lucas’s forearms instead, hips rocking forward and back, feeling hot damp skin tugging around his cock. 

John wants to say something. He wants to tell Lucas how good it feels, to praise him in some way--but he doesn’t. He sinks his teeth into the muscles of his back and fucks him between the thighs instead. 

When he comes, it’s almost an afterthought to the release of anger that’s already happened. He slumps against Lucas, feeling drained in all senses of the word. And his knees are fucking killing him. He eases himself to his feet, wincing at the ache in his knees, then holds out his hand to pull Lucas up. John kicks the rest of their clothes out of the way, then pulls Lucas towards his bedroom. 

He doesn’t know what this means. He doesn’t know what happens next, but he knows he’s not done here yet.

\---

The next morning, the other side of the bed is empty. John stretches, aware of an astonishing array of aches and bruises from the night before as he sits up. “Lucas?” No answer.

He shakes his head. “The bastard did it again,” he says, reaching for his phone.

Sure enough, there’s a text message. John reads it, at first not comprehending the words on the screen.

He slumps back against the headboard, staring at his phone.

It’s a joke. Or another lie.

_What if it’s true?_

\---

Lucas is more tempted to stay this time than he’d been the first time. John had seen the truth, had seen the dark, rotten core at the centre of him and had responded in kind. When he first awoke, bruised and sore, he thought, _I could have this_.

He could, and he’d spend all of his time with John on the run: from his former employers, who were not going to be happy that John Watson was still alive, and from Sherlock Holmes, who no doubt wouldn’t rest until he’d found John. And he’d have to hide all that from John.

It’s too much like Maya all over, and he can’t face it again.

So he crawls out of John’s bed a second time, this time for good. He dresses quickly, and as best he can, with the remains of his shirt, then reloads the Glock with the scattered cartridges. He has, perhaps, until noon before his employers realise that he hasn’t finished the job, and perhaps a few hours after that until they come after him. A decent head start, then. He has time to go back to the flat and choose another identity, and another place to start over again. He doesn’t think too hard about what he’s leaving behind in London. Everything in London belongs to a man who doesn’t exist anymore. Those things are no longer his.

It takes him about an hour to throw together a bag of clothing and necessities. By then, he thinks he knows where he’s headed. There are plenty of backwater countries that won’t look too closely at who’s coming into their country, places where he can make a living if he has to.

When he’s in the cab on the way to Heathrow, he sends John a text. He owes him at least that much. In a way, John’s set him free. The least he can do is return the favour.

_They’ll be after me soon, but I wanted you to know why. Sherlock Holmes is still alive, and they thought you knew where he was. I’m sure he’ll find you. Be careful._

He leaves the mobile behind him when he gets out of the cab, tucking it under the seat, but not before sending one last message.

_Good luck, John._

He walks into the airport and doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from William Blake's poem, "Auguries of Innocence":
> 
> Every night and every morn  
> Some to misery are born,  
> Every morn and every night  
> Some are born to sweet delight.
> 
> Some are born to sweet delight,  
> Some are born to endless night.
> 
> We are led to believe a lie  
> When we see not thro' the eye...


End file.
